


You get softer every Summer

by moonpride



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Exhibitionism, Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonpride/pseuds/moonpride
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki could not pursue skating competitively. Yuuri Katsuki loved Victor Nikiforov. Yuuri Katsuki once lost everything. Victor Nikiforov was all he had left. He was going to protect Victor Nikiforov with all he had.





	1. Parallel Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ifyouleave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifyouleave/gifts).



> As the tags suggest, this AU will deal with disturbing themes and situations. Content will get darker and more explicit as the story goes on. Reader discretion is advised. Please take care.

“--and if you find anything that isn’t supposed to be there - _anything_ , you hear me, Vitya? - get the hell out immediately, or I’m never going to let you out of my sight until we know what is going on and this mess is over--”

Yakov’s voice kept barking through the phone into the silent night as Victor fished his keys out of the front pocket of his carry-on.

He knew his coach was concerned; that under the gruff exterior and his brusque manners he cared for Victor as he would for a son, but, in Victor’s own opinion, he also worried too much. Especially for an old man who’d just endured the obligatory stress that accompanied every competition where unruly pupils would of course get even more out of control, all followed by a return trip to Russia of over ten hours.

“We were at the rink just now for the conference, Yakov, and I didn’t see any roses in my locker. I told you it must have been just a janitor being nice or something. Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The air in the apartment had grown cold and stale during his absence. Victor should have been used to it by now: pursuing figure skating on a professional level meant travelling a lot--qualifiers, competitions, ice shows and even sponsors often demanded his presence elsewhere, but even after all those years, there was something about coming home to an empty place that filled him with melancholia.

Oh, but that thought was terribly unfair of him. There was someone, after all, who had stuck by him ever since he was just a teen competing in Juniors.

“Makkachin?” he called tentatively.

There was a long beat of silence before he heard the familiar noise of nails clicking against the floor: Makkachin must have been asleep.

“I missed you so much,” he laughed into her fur as she stood on her hind paws and tried to lick his face with gusto. “Have you been a good girl?”

Makkachin barked enthusiastically.

“Of course, of course. Huh? What is it?”

Victor was puzzled as Makkachin started to push her head against the back of his knees, until he finally started walking towards the kitchen: while it wasn’t exactly out of character for lively and smart Makkachin to take charge like that, that sort of gesture was usually reserved for the times when a tired Victor would forget a pot on the stove, or when she felt she’d waited more than enough for her meal if he came home later than usual.

At that time, however, there was no one who could have been using his home appliances, nor could Makkachin have been hungry, considering her current dog-sitter was already familiar with her daily routine.

“What is this?”

Victor stared at the mess of upturned bowls and scattered dry dog food pouring out of a ripped bag.

While she was an expert at cheating the strictest humans out of countless table scraps with her adorable puppy eyes, and had a penchant for trying to eat any kind of food that entered her field of vision if left unsupervised, Makkachin was well-behaved and would never go out of her way to make a mess like that to steal some food--unless she _had_ been starving.

Victor felt his face go cold and then hot from anger. It wasn’t like him to lose his composure, especially not so quickly, however Makkachin was his family and he couldn’t believe that the boy he’d trusted with her well-being would risk her health like that.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back messily - something Victor only ever did when he was particularly upset, conscious as he was of his tall forehead - and decided to tidy up a bit as he waited for the dog-sitter to pick up his phone.

Makkachin whined when she saw him scooping the pellets up and back into the bag she’d worked so hard to rip open. Victor pushed his phone between cheek and shoulder to pat her head, and poured her usual portion into the bowl.

“Hello?”

Finally, the voice crackled to life through the speaker. It sounded faraway and tense.

“I just got home and I found Makkacchin’s food all over the floor after she tried to feed herself,” Victor stated in a low, even tone that bordered on empty. “When was the last time she had a meal?”

“I, I’ve been coming over every day for the past five days but, yesterday morning I just couldn’t bring myself to come in. I was alone, no one who could come with me, I figured I could endure it one last time but, but _I couldn’t_.”

Victor studied the kitchen with narrowed eyes, expecting to find something weird or out of place that could explain the panic in the boy’s voice--or his puzzling, sudden need for company on a dog-sitting job.

“What are you talking about?”

“It was, it was small things at first. Things I barely noticed, that I could easily dismiss one way or another. On the first day, when I came for Makkachin’s walk at night, her bowls were completely filled. I figured maybe she just hadn’t gotten hungry yet, that I must have poured more water than necessary so there was still a lot left. I was so _dumb_.”

There was a something like a sigh or a muffled sob. A deep breath. Another.

“At one point--because these, these _things_ kept happening--I started asking my friends to come along, they made fun of me, and I laughed at myself too, because I could still believe that I was being paranoid--Yesterday morning, though, yesterday I… Oh god, oh god.”

The boy was crying; there was no doubt about it now.

And in the quiet broken only by the scratchy sound of distant sobs, Victor’s lungs grew heavy, as if ready to burst, as if someone was pushing him underwater and he was already running out of air.

It was ridiculous.

Victor forced himself to speak. He felt that if he kept silent now, he’d end up being swallowed by that strange uneasiness as well.

“What happened yesterday morning?”

“I unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer. Just as I was about to switch the lights on, in the mirror I, I--”

Victor ran back into the foyer, where everything looked just as he’d left it before the trip. The full-length mirror stood against the wall, framed by scarves and other accessories that Victor would wear frequently along with the winter coats he had purchased for the season.

His own reflection glared back at him.

“What happened with the mirror?”

Victor heard the boy's voice shudder and break around beginning of a word. He heard him try to swallow down the lump in his throat.

“In the mirror… I saw, there was--Mr Nikiforov, there was someone in the hallway leading to the bedroom. I could see their silhouette in the mirror. I saw it and I ran out, I’m so sorry, I--”

On the other end of the line, the boy had broken down in sobs again.

Victor could still hear the cries with clarity, when his phone fell clattering on the floor. His fingers were trembling, unable to hold onto it any longer. There was cold sweat trickling down his back.

Victor ran. 

He slammed the bedroom door open and, for a moment, the noise of it smacking against the wall was deafening.

It kept on ringing through Victor’s head like static. There was no space for anything else. 

At the foot of the bed, lay a small bouquet of blue roses.

Victor fell on his hands and knees, crumpled up like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Yuuri? Are you okay, Yuuri?”

Hiroko Katsuki’s voice remained soft and comforting even when she worried. Even when her words flowed tinny and stilted out of a phone. Even when she was a continent away.

It was one of the things Yuuri liked best about her. On the rare occasion that he’d let his family try to comfort him when he was distressed or sad, his mother’s voice was one thing that helped his mind wander towards better places. Peaceful places.

The sorrow that consumed Yuuri on that night, however, was not something he could share with her--or anyone else.

“I, I am mom. Sorry. I’m just… a bit stressed over this new job. It’s, it’s a novel, you know and ah, oh, I’m afraid of screwing up. You know me.”

She did.

“I understand. Please, take care of yourself, and let’s videocall next time, okay? Dad and Mari want to see your face.”

Yuuri knew that she must have sensed the ugly, fat tears rolling down his face in the way his voice wavered and broke, that she must have suspected there was something else, something more, eating away at him. But Hiroko would never say anything--not until Yuuri himself decided to open up, and that was something that, at times, made him feel grateful and lonely in equal parts.

“Talk to you soon mom, bye.”

Yuuri lowered his arm slowly, barely registering its movements or the cold weight of the phone still in his hand.

His eyes followed the grainy figure moving in and out of his laptop screen with apprehension.

The man kept pacing back and forth, occasionally tugging on his own hair in frustration. Sometimes he’d disappear down the hallway where the camera couldn’t follow him, only to walk back into the living room right away: it was late, but it looked like he didn’t intend on going to sleep.

Yuuri felt the weight of yet to be shed tears and guilt gathering into a lump that blocked his throat.

It was his fault Victor was mad, wasn’t it. He wished, for a moment, that he could see his expression clearly, to be sure, to stop worrying - perhaps - over nothing, but that was a selfish wish, something that Yuuri could have easily gotten when he picked out the cameras months ago, had he been a lesser man, had he not cared for Victor so much.

Yuuri sobbed. He shouldn’t have to remind himself that this was for Victor’s sake, to make sure that he was safe and happy, and that he should never, ever consider invading his privacy any further than this, but Yuuri was a weak man, an arrogant man whose head was full of selfish thoughts like Victor’s smile and Victor’s praise being only for him.

“Ah, I’m always, always messing up. Why did I take the roses with me? Why did I leave them in the bedroom! Victor’s bedroom is off limits! It’s his sanctuary and someone like me isn’t allowed in there. Cameras aren’t allowed in there, not even--not even flowers!”

On screen, Victor Nikiforov returned again to the living room. This time, he was carrying pillows and a comforter in his arms.

Horrified, Yuuri watched as he dropped them onto the couch and started undressing.

“He’s really mad,” he wailed. “He’s so disgusted I walked into his room without his permission that he’d rather sleep on the couch, where I can see him, than in his own bedroom! Victor’s poor back is going to be so sore and it will be all my fault! What if he gets injured during practice? Ahh.”

Yuuri's mouth was dry, and filled with the salt from his own tears. He hadn't stopped crying since Victor got home--it truly was the only thing he was good at, crying.

After all, ever since he’d moved to Russia, all Yuuri had done was disappoint Victor.

“Hah, he’s never going to forgive me. Never, never, never.”

There was no doubt that Victor would hate him even more, if he knew that Yuuri didn’t even posses the decency to look away as he stripped, or the self-control to stop his own hands from pulling down his sweatpants to palm his cock like a horny teenager.

As he came, Yuuri watched Victor finally curl up on the couch, under the comforter; his tiny black underwear on the floor along with the rest of this clothes.


	2. The pityful case of Y.K. (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Yuuri Katsuki got where he is in chapter one or: what went wrong in this universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the second chapter is here. Sorry for the stupidly long wait. In these past six or so months my life has done a total 360 and it's been very scary and stressful. Now that things have settled down, I've finally returned to this fic. I hope there are still people who care! orz The structure of this part has changed many times and I wrote so much that I eventually decided to break Yuuri and Victor's interludes into two different chapters. It's been a real struggle and I'm ashamed to reappear after so long with a boring transition chapter filled with boring exposition. I apologize in advance for the poor quality.  
> A warning: the first part of this chapter deals with adolescent sexuality i.e. Yuuri's sexual awakening because of and in relation to Victor. There is no sexual intercourse, and it's not smut, but I know there may be readers that are uncomfortable with that nonetheless so I wanted to give everyone a heads up.

There was a game he used to play when he was still just a boy.

  


It was his secret, and it was special, it made him feel light and warm like nothing else before, and so Yuuri tried to save it for the moments when he felt particularly lonely or sad - afraid, perhaps, that the magic would wear off - like when practice was frustrating because he couldn’t get a certain jump right, or when he was told that he should not eat katsudon or any of the things he liked for four, eight weeks, until after the competition, until the end of the season because the one thing that came naturally to the useless pig he was, was gaining weight.

  


There were moments, though, when the game would start on its own.

  


Moments when something would take over Yuuri’s body and mind--something that simmered in the pit of his stomach and made him want for things he couldn’t name or understand.

  


It always started in the dark, on his bed.

  


Yuuri would squeeze his eyes shut and then slowly, slowly, crack them open--but only a little bit, only enough to get a glimpse of the blurry darkness that overtook the room at night: a place between reality and his imagination where anything could come true.

  


There, a curtain of silver hair would fall around him, creating a pocket where nothing but what made Yuuri happy was allowed: Victor Nikiforov’s fey face would look down at him, then, smirking mischievously like he and Yuuri were sharing a secret.

  


Victor never spoke. He simply stared at Yuuri with that smile, and when Yuuri smiled back - tentative and a bit crooked - Victor would sometimes giggle as if he’d read things, in that clumsy smile, that Yuuri himself ignored.

  


Sometimes, Victor’s fair head dived down right next to his, to laugh into his ear, and Yuuri could swear he felt the heat of a living thing rolling off of it. It made him want to move, a little, just a little, just to feel the velvet of Victor’s cheek against his own.

  


He didn’t understand why at first, but he wanted to feel the weight of Victor’s body against his own, and he fact that he couldn’t do that, made Yuuri’s hands seek the skin of his own stomach, his thighs press and rub together, and he would feel the warmth that always came with the game grow more intense; he’d feel himself inching closer to something he didn’t know yet wanted so desperately.

  


During those times, the game would leave Yuuri with a sense of unfulfillment that made him cry himself to sleep, feeling even more frustrated and lonely than he did before Victor’s visit.

  


It was almost out of anger - at his own body, at the ghost of Victor that tortured him like so - that Yuuri first shoved a hand where his thighs squeezed and rubbed against each other--the heat in his stomach became heavier then, his insides tightening until something within his stomach, his lungs, his heart exploded and Yuuri felt light, experienced a boundless freedom that he had never experienced on the ice.

  


After that, everything changed.

  


It was as if Yuuri was going through life with new eyes now; as if he had only just gotten to know himself--and what truly bound him to Victor.

  


Victor, Victor, Victor.

  


He’d watch his routines, the conferences and the interviews, trace his beautiful features printed on glossy magazine paper and grow hard, just like that.

  


Some days, during practice, as he went through bits of a routine that he couldn’t nail down, Yuuri would tell himself that Victor was watching, so he ought to try his best and succeed--more often than not, the mere thought of being watched only made his legs betray him faster as he trembled from excitement, and the dancer belt grew uncomfortably tight.

  


By that point, Yuuri was old enough to know that he should be embarrassed by how quickly the simple thought of Victor Nikiforov got him hard and made him come--and he  _ was _ ; he was and he knew that this was something he could never tell anyone, because it was weird, because not everyone would be okay with him liking a guy  _ like that _ , because, at some point, it had grown far beyond a simple celebrity crush.

  


Now, when he played the game at night, Victor’s smirk grew sharper and amused--as if satisfied by the fact that Yuuri had grown into such a twisted and creepy creature because of him--for his  _ sake _ .

  


That cold smile only made Yuuri come harder.

  
  
  
  
  


Perhaps, if things had gone differently, that part of Yuuri would have stayed hidden and contained until it had had enough time to mature into something less consuming and destructive--the kind of  _ eros _ that nurtures happiness as it seeks out pleasure--instead of the matted tangle of hunger and death - _ thanatos _ \- that eventually came to be and would shape the rest of his days--his and Victor Nikiforov’s, that is.

  


Perhaps.

  


If Minako had never suggested he take up figure skating. If Yuuko had never insisted on watching the sports channel together on the old TV at the skating rink. If the accident had never happened.

  


Perhaps, the real turning point had been the picture and what followed: the arrogant, unrelenting, mad hope it had sown into Yuuri’s heart.

  


Before, the mere notion of communicating with Victor in any way had terrified Yuuri, then, on a rather slow afternoon, Yuuko decided that he should take a picture with Vicchan - who at the time was still a new addition to the Katsuki family - and send it to Victor, who, when allowed to, would notoriously go on and on about Makkachin in interviews as if she were a human friend or a sibling. Even Nishigori agreed with the idea--though, in retrospect, he might have just wanted to get on Yuuko’s good side after receiving the umpteenth lecture from her for intimidating the new children at the rink.

  


It was Mari that took the picture with the instant camera she usually reserved for the meet-ups with her fellow bangya friends.

  


“You should write something cute here,” snickered Minako, tapping a painted nail against the white border of the picture.

  


Yuuko pushed a glittery blue gel pen - which Yuuri recognized from the prized set of pens that released a sweet, fruity scent when used and that Yuuko was rather possessive of - into his hand and urged him to write something brief but infused with all the passion Yuuri held for skating and Victor. The message ought to be in English, of course, although showing off some of his self-taught Russian would be super cool, she explained to a red-faced, spluttering Yuuri--who nevertheless followed her advice.

  


Sometimes, all it took was someone else voicing Yuuri’s innermost desires: the chance to pretend that his most self-indulgent dreams were not his own, that he was instead indulging someone else’s whim.

  


About six weeks later, Victor Nikiforov was delicately tearing open one envelope from Japan, out of the hundreds that had just been presented to him in an array of boxes.

  


“It’s so light,” he explained to an utterly disinterested Yakov. “I wonder if it’s empty, or a prank.”

  


It was Yakov’s belief that only boring, spoiled people found the world around them boring, and while he never failed to remind Victor of that fact, there was something about the way his pupil was constantly searching for something new and exciting at every corner that worried him, deep down.

  


“You sound a bit too cheerful for someone who thinks they might have been just pranked,” he grumbled.

  


“Come now, it’s not something that happens every day, is it. Even if this turns out to be hate mail, I can at least praise the creativity of--Oh! This is--”

  


A polaroid picture the size of a credit card, portraying a boy in sports gear, holding a very small poodle against his chest. Though the camera flash had washed out his features, Victor was still able to make out the traces of a blush across his round cheeks. The background, an empty skating rink.

  


On the white border at the bottom, awkward Cyrillic in glittery blue ink greeted:  _ Hello Victor! _ and then, in considerably less shaky Latin letters, a telegraphic message in English:  _ Me and my friend. I’m working hard to be on the same ice as you _ .

  


Hands cupping his own cheeks, Victor laughed.

  


“Well. This is a lot more adorable than I expected. Maybe I should write back, just this once.”

  


He sounded so delighted. Yakov’s heart hurt.

  
  
  


Almost two months later, Yuuri returned home to a thin envelope resting on his desk.

  


Inside, a polaroid picture the size of a credit card portraying Victor Nikiforov and Makkachin greeted him with a string of unpracticed kana, traced in glittery purple ink:  _ To Yuuri _ , and then, in English:  _ Do your best! Your cute friend and I will be cheering for you until then! _ ; lastly, Victor’s signature, followed by a heart.

  


Yuuri’s heart hammered in his chest.

  


I’ll work hard, he promised, and he did.

  


He gave his all to the ice until he couldn’t anymore.

  
  
  


The accident ended Vicchan’s life and Yuuri’s skating career in a matter of minutes, as if both had been ephemeral, insignificant things whose existence was of no consequence to anyone.

  


After being discharged from the hospital, for countless days, wrapped in a cocoon of unwashed sheets and stale air, Yuuri would wait for the guests to retire to their rooms and the household to fall asleep before he ventured downstairs in search of something to eat. The warm meals that were left at his door were never enough to sate the painful, mysterious emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole from the inside. An embarrassed doctor had mentioned - while carefully avoiding his parents’ eyes - something along the lines of  _ already frail nerves _ and  _ anxiety _ and  _ depression _ .

  


The staff that had worked for hours on his shattered leg in the operating room unanimously agreed that, the way things had gone, it was incredibly lucky that Yuuri would eventually be able to walk again at all. But to Yuuri, who used to dedicate his days to skating and ballet, that had sounded like a meager consolation prize.

  


The need to respect the boundaries Yuuri himself had set overriding that to intervene and do something, anything, that would finally drag him out of his room, the rest of the Katsuki family could only watch and wait for a day they couldn’t even be sure would ever come.

  


It was Minako who eventually grew tired of waiting.

  


“It stinks in here!” were the first words she yelled after barging into the room. “Get up immediately and make yourself presentable. I called the physiotherapist the hospital recommended and made an appointment for this afternoon. This has gone on long enough.”

  


Like a hurricane, she opened the window and tore off the thick blankets from the bed in a handful of seconds. The room was a mess. The light was too bright. Yuuri blinked and tried to hide his face against the pillow.

  


“I don’t want to,” he muttered around mouthfuls of scratchy fabric. “I don’t want to do anything.”

  


“I know. It has been weeks and you have not done a single thing the doctor advised. We’ve given you time and space, and it’s clear that this isn’t working.”

  


“What good will physiotherapy do me, instead?” he spoke slowly; his tongue was heavy and thick, an unfamiliar object he needed to learn using again.

  


“It’s a start. You can decide what will be good for you, on your own, after you leave this room and show some interest in living your life again.”

  


Yuuri jumped, as if recoiling from something horrible--he looked at Minako as if she had just betrayed him. “I can’t live  _ my _ life again! Not when Vicchan is gone because I couldn’t protect him, not when I can’t even--My life was--My life was--”

  


_ Skating. _

  


_ Chasing after Victor. _

  


_ I wanted to skate with Victor. _

  


“Your life!” Minako yelled. “Your life  _ is _ , could be, so many things, if only you gave yourself the chance to find out. I won’t pretend things aren’t going to be different, or hard, but Yuuri,” her voice trembled. “Yuuri,” it broke. “Your life isn’t just your own. Please, for your own sake, and your family’s, and Vicchan’s, and mine--Please, don’t give up on yourself.”

  


She was crying. Yuuri realized he had never seen his teacher cry like this. His achievements had moved her in the past, to the point of shedding some tears, but she had looked proud then, happy even; certainly not helpless or desperate. The sight filled him with shame: because he had caused it, and because he could only watch, shameless and awkward, unable to come up with the words that Minako needed to hear. 

  


Eventually, the sobs died down; behind the thick curtain of her hair, Minako delicately wiped her face with her hands. When she lifted her head, her familiar grin was back. It was sincere, yet looked out of place. Her eyes were red and puffy; Yuuri knew that, normally, she would never let anyone see her like that.

  


“I have tickets for the ice show in Tokyo next week.”

  


Yuuri gasped. “Victor will--”

  


Minako nodded. “Yes, Victor will be there. I asked an old acquaintance to save them for me as soon as the announcement was made. I figured my pupil who’s a total Victor fanatic would like to see his idol upclose.”

  


“But… The way I am now… I can no longer…”

  


“Yuuri! Victor said he would be cheering you on, didn’t he? It’s not every day a celebrity replies to fan mail, is it? It’s because Victor loves the ice as much as you do that he could tell how passionate you were just from that tiny picture. You have been chasing after him all this time, but the truth is that, at that moment, Victor had already acknowledged you as a fellow skater. Even if your dreams will take on a different shape from now on, I’m sure he would still want you to pursue them and become happy. Don’t give up on that--Don’t let Victor down.”

  


Yuuri’s eyes fell onto the polaroid, encased in a much too large frame on his desk.

  


It was true: someone like Victor received countless letters every day--wasn’t that why he had been so scared to write to him, in the first place? Hadn’t Yuuri expected that his attempt at communicating with the person he admired would remain one-sided? Someone like Victor was simply too busy and too popular to write back to every single letter he received. That he would take time out of his busy schedule to take a picture just for Yuuri--That he would choose Yuuri out among hundreds of thousands of people--Surely, Yuuri had no right to be so ungrateful and betray that trust, that feeble connection between them.

  


“I won’t,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll do my best from now on.”

  


Minako’s smile grew wider.

  


For the first time since the accident, Yuuri offered an awkward, crooked smile in return.

  


Victor was waiting for him. He couldn’t let him down.

  
  
  
  
  


“Yuuri! Minako-senpai is here!”

  


“Coming!”

  


Hiroko Katsuki watched her son slowly walk down the stairs, one hand wrapped around the handle of his carry on bag, the other holding onto the railing. He was a young man in his twenties now, however Hiroko couldn’t help but find him still as cute as he was as a baby, all wrapped up in his winter coat and thick scarf.

  


“Everything alright?” Mari asked. Her eyes followed Yuuri’s movements carefully.

  


“Yeah, thank you.”

  


“Be careful and don’t strain yourself,” said Toshiya.

  


Finally at the bottom of the stairs, Yuuri smiled. “Please don’t worry. Minako-sensei is driving me to the airport and when I land in St Petersburg I’ll take another cab to my apartment. The way things are, I’ll barely get to walk at all in the next 24 hours. And I have the folding cane at hand, in any case. I’ll go say goodbye to Vicchan now; tell Minako-sensei that I’ll be out in a minute.”

  


Yuuri was a very strong boy, Hiroko thought, her heart brimming with pride and warmth. She and her husband had always respected that quiet strength of his, taking care through the years not to overstep certain boundaries because Yuuri hated inconveniencing others as much as he hated being pitied or thought of as weak. The accident had taken so much from him, and yet, while his parents questioned their choices and what to do, Yuuri had gotten back on his feet, forging a new path for himself that had culminated in a degree in Russian language and literature the year prior.

  


Moving to St Petersburg had become Yuuri’s dream, after the accident, and today he was finally leaving for an internship at a prestigious publishing house there.

  


It wasn’t his first trip to Russia.

  


Though no longer able to skate himself, Yuuri had continued to follow the sport very closely. In particular, he had never stopped being a fan of Victor and after that first ice show in Tokyo, he had attended as many events as he could to cheer for him in person.

  


For a moment, Hiroko entertained the silly thought of her son meeting his idol in St Petersburg: by chance, they would decide to take a stroll on the same evening, in the same street, then, Yuuri would work up the courage to talk to him, or maybe Victor would recognize the young boy with round cheeks that once upon a time wrote to him; they would talk and keep in touch, and Hiroko giggled thinking of how happy something like that would make her son. She laughed at herself a little, and prayed that Yuuri would find the happiness he deserved in the city of his dreams, one way or another.

  


She held onto him as they said their goodbyes and watched him walk through the door with that hope in her heart.

  


Hiroko Katsuki had no idea that her son was leaving Hasetsu already with a fairly good idea of the location of Victor’s apartment, nor did she - or anyone else - know the real, crooked shape that Yuuri’s dream had taken on ever since that day in Tokyo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Next chapter will tie in with the events of chapter one, so we'll finally be back to the story proper. Next chapter is also where things begin to get darker.  
> In the meanwhile, you can find me on twitter @moonprideatao3. I'm no good with SNS so it's completely empty as of now, but if possible I'd love to discuss YOI and the fic with everyone. Feedback and brainstorming really help me write faster. :)


End file.
